Etudes on Marriage
by JoJo4
Summary: Something is bothering Hermione, but Draco doesn't know what it is. (Complete)


Disclaimer: Only the plot belongs to me.  I'm not making money off of it.

Dedication:  To C.C.  

Etudes on Marriage

by Jenni

"I won't do it!"

Hermione knew her cheeks were red with frustration and her right hand was clenching and unclenching in anger around the handles of her purse.  In her left hand she held a large portfolio of music.  

"We're going to be late, Thomas," she urged in her sternest mother voice.  "Now stop whining and put your shoes on!"

"NO!" he screamed and hurled his shoes across the foyer.  They hit one of the plaster walls with a thud.  Hermione could actually feel her patience snap in half.  

"You go get your shoes and put them on now or so help me, young man, I'll take away your blankey!"  

With that her precocious six year old began to bawl and rub at his baby blue eyes with his cute, pudgy little fingers.  Between his cries Hermione could hear what sounded like, "Doo cwam take away my blankwey…"

He was just so pathetically adorable that Hermione could no longer be cross with him.  She knelt down and set her purse and the portfolio aside.  

"Why don't you want to go to your piano lesson, Tom?" she asked, sweetly.

"You're gonna twak away my blankwey," he mumbled, still crying.  He started rubbing as his ice blue eyes—his father's—and blinked at her.  The reminder of Draco's kind face broke her heart, and she gathered her son up into her arms.  

"No, Mummy promises she won't take away your blankey."  She rubbed Little Tom's back as he hiccupped against her shoulder.  "There there.  Now, tell me why you don't want to go to your piano lesson."

"Because her breath smells," he said.  The 'her' of whom he spoke was Mrs. Kingston, an elderly witch, who smelled like medicine and mothballs, but who nevertheless had a great talent for music.  Still, Hermione felt a little bad for Tom, now that he had confessed his reason for disliking piano lessons.  Her son had always had the oddest sensitivity to smells.  He could smell Daddy coming from twenty feet away just because of the cologne he used, although to her the scent never seemed very strong.  Tom could pinpoint the exact locations where their pet beagle had slept, licked or marked.  Tom could smell lettuce and consequently didn't like it.  Tom could smell garlic that had been used for dinner a week ago.  And Tom simply could not abide bad breath.

"Any other reason?" Hermione asked him.

"She makes me sit on a book," sniffed Tom, with an air of supreme self-importance.  

Hermione laughed, despite her son's imperiousness.  She had always taught him to respect books, and to never under any circumstances use them as furniture.  Tom had minded her advice with the typical Malfoy pride.  He would often sit in the library while the maids were dusting the shelves in order to supervise the process.  If he deemed that any book had been mistreated, he would say he was going to inform the housekeeper.  Of course, until lately he hadn't been able to say the housekeeper's name properly, and so all his declarations had been treated as a great joke and were generally followed by a gentle pat on the head from the maids and sometimes a piece of candy.  Everyone loved young Master Tom.

"All right," said Hermione, without knowing how her son had won her over so quickly.  "We won't go to Mrs. Kingston's house this week.  But you're still going to have a piano lesson."

"Ok," he relented with another hiccough.  Hermione kissed him on the nose and set him on his feet.  

"Now, go put your shoes away while I send an owl to your teacher."

*****

As was his custom after returning home, the first thing Draco did after apparating into the main hall of Malfoy Manor was to search for his wife.  Generally he had to ask a servant, for his house was so large that if he decided to look without aid he might spend all night in search of Hermione.  However, today this was unnecessary.  Within one second of returning home he became aware of the music echoing through the hall.  

One of Chopin's nocturnes, Draco realized.  He didn't know which one specifically, but he recognized the tune.  This had been the song Hermione had played when he first realized he was in love with her.  Absently, he handed his luggage over to his manservant.  Then, somewhat lost in the pleasant past, Draco hastened to the drawing room where he knew he would find his beautiful Hermione.  He found the heavy oak door propped open with several of Tom's toys.  He carefully tiptoed over them and stepped into the room to find his wife sitting at the piano, still playing.  The concentration was evident from her posture.  Beside her on the bench sat their son, peering at her deft fingers with an expression of pure wonder.  

Draco beamed at the happy picture, and leaned against the wooden paneling until Hermione finished some moments later.  He surprised them with a hearty round of applause.  

Immediately Tom whirled around, shouting, "Daddy!"

He scurried off the bench and ran to Draco, who swept him up into the air.  "How's my boy?" he asked.

Tom immediately began to ramble about how he'd enlisted one of the butler's children in a rousing game of hide and go seek and how the dog had tried to eat his dinner and something else that Draco wasn't able to catch.

Hermione, meanwhile, had departed from the piano to greet her husband.  Draco waited for her to come close enough so that he could kiss her, but to his dismay she kept her distance.  

"Remind me again what the name of that piece is," said Draco, putting forth some effort.  

"Larghetto in B-flat minor," she answered.  "I was trying to impress your son of the merits of learning piano."

Draco cast his son a sideways glance.  "Did you go to your lesson today?"

Tom gave an emphatic shake of his head.  "Nope," he chirped.  

Draco set his son down and patted him gently on the rear.  "Run along then."

When he faced Hermione again his face was stern and accusatory.  "You didn't take him to his lesson?"

Suddenly she mouth tightened, which meant that she was holding back a retort.  The space between them was now painfully far.  The brief silence was frigid, and Draco's heart fell.  It seemed that his idyllic homecoming was not to be.  In fact, things seemed to be exactly as they had been before his business trip.

"I thought we had discussed this," he said.  

"He doesn't like her, Draco," answered Hermione, brushing by him in order to pick up Tom's toys.  It was evident from her tone of voice that she had nothing else to say on the subject.  

"She's the best teacher there is right now."

"So why don't _you_ take piano lessons?" she said, picking up another toy bucket.  "Or for that matter, why don't you stay home and try to get Tom to go.  Every week I have to go through the same ordeal!  Getting him dressed, putting on his shoes, finding the music he hides in drawers and wardrobes."  She emphasized each step in the process by tossing another action figure into the bucket where it thudded angrily against the bottom.

"Oh no, you're not going to blame me for confining you to the tribulations of child-rearing.  I offered to hire a nanny at least ten times."

"I'm not handing over my son to some stranger!"

"And I will see to it that my son receives the very best opportunities in whatever he does!  Since you can't control him, then maybe a stranger might not be such a bad idea."

Hermione dropped the bucket onto the hardwood floor.  Draco winced when it hit.

"Are you implying that I am a bad mother?"

Draco hated it when she twisted his words like that.  "No!" he exclaimed, now just as angry that she had nicked his floor as he was that she had misinterpreted what he had said.  "I just meant that you might need some help disciplining Tom."  

"What I _need_ is for his father to be home once in a while."  With that Hermione spun around and walked out of the room as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.  

"Hermione, come back here!" he shouted, but there was no answer.  Draco felt his temper burst, and he chased after her.  He caught her half way up the hall and yanked her back by the arm.  When she cried out in pain, he instantly released her.  Guilt crept over him.  He hadn't meant to hurt her.  

"Good God, Hermione, we can't keep on like this," he said, much more gently.  

She looked at him for only a second before bowing her head again, but it was enough for Draco to see that she was crying.  

"_I_ gave Tom his lesson today," she spat out.  "You didn't even think that I might teach him."

Draco nodded, fully convinced that he had gotten to the heart of the matter.  "Well, I always thought that you didn't have the time…"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Hermione spun on her heels and stalked off, and Draco didn't bother to follow her.  Instead he strayed in the other direction, towards the eastern wing and the guest chambers.  He didn't go more than ten steps, however, before he stumbled over something in his path.  When he glanced down to inspect the obstruction, he discovered Tom pulling on his pant leg with a fearful look on his face.  

"Are you and Mummy getting a divorce?"

Draco laughed despite the fact that this very thought had crossed his mind more than once in the past month or so.  He bent down to scoop up his son.  "Malfoys don't divorce," he answered.  Tom did not appear relieved.  

"My friend Marcus said his parents got divorced."  Marcus was the underbutler's son.

"Well, Marcus isn't a Malfoy, is he?" 

"Marcus said his Mum cried a lot before it happened, and Mummy's being crying a lot too."

Draco felt as if he'd been stabbed by the mention of his wife's misery.  He'd had no idea…

"Why does she cry, Tom?"

The boy shrugged.  "I don't know."

*****

An hour later, after Draco had deposited Tom safely in the nursery, he found himself in the conservatory, replaying the events of the past couple months with Hermione.  Until about four months ago everything in their marriage had been blissfully happy.  Hermione had worked as an Auror up until her pregnancy, and then Draco had felt that she resigned her commission of her own volition.  She had thrown herself into the role of housewife and mother with all the enthusiasm and passion that she threw into everything else.  Personally, Draco didn't care whether she worked or didn't so long as she was happy.  But lately he felt as if she was disgruntled with her life.  He felt as if she blamed him.  

There had always been fights in their marriage, but they had ended with an explanation, a settlement, an apology.  What marriage doesn't experience low points?  But whatever had happened four months ago made communication between them well nigh impossible.  

He'd started sleeping in the guest rooms right before leaving on his business trip, but he had hoped that after a break Hermione might begin to miss him a little more.  Maybe she wouldn't be so temperamental.  And when he had heard her playing that piece…

But no.  Something had happened, and he didn't know how to pry it out of her.  

"You could always ask."

Draco jumped at the sound of the voice.  He nearly kicked himself when he realized that he'd been standing in front of the Herba Mentis.  It was a rare plant with telepathic capabilities, and was now being annoyingly astute.  

"Shove off," he told the plant, all the while knowing it was right.  

"This is ludicrous," said Draco outloud.  "I'm talking to a plant."

"And you're still doing it," replied the Herba Mentis.  

Draco hastened away in disgust.  

*****

Two days passed in which Draco had said absolutely nothing to Hermione.  In fact, he had not even seen her.  The house was large enough that if she wanted to, she could probably avoid him for the rest of her life.  Draco, on the other hand, was not avoiding her, although he did not actively seek her out.  In the back of his mind, he knew that he ought to, and yet a large part of him could not help but think that if he did he would be doing so at the behest of a Lithuanian wildflower.  But if he happened to linger near the door of the drawing room longer than was necessary, and if he remained home from work for no particular reason then Draco felt he was perfectly within his rights to do so.  After all, the plant hadn't told him to do any of _those_ things.  

The silence was broken at last on Tuesday afternoon, when Draco happened to be walking through the hall that led to the drawing room.  He had distinctly heard the sound of scales being played on the piano.  

When he reached the door, he found it propped open, and once again his wife and son were sitting on the bench.  This time, however, it was Tom playing.  He was nowhere near as proficient as his mother, but his young face was lit up with the same joy that hers did while sitting on that bench.  

Draco smiled when his son hit a bad note.  

"Oops," he heard the boy mumble.

Hermione ruffled Tom's hair.  "That's all right," she said.  "Try again."

And he did.  Twice more, each time perfectly.  

Draco watched unnoticed for the duration of the lesson, admiring Hermione's gentle words of encouragement and her patience.  She was indeed a marvelous teacher, and he was sorry now that he had never thought of her before some silly Mrs. Kingston.  

But when Tom hopped off the bench, Draco pressed himself against the wall outside the room in an attempt to hide.  Although it was a fairly pathetic attempt, nevertheless Tom seemed too preoccupied to notice his father.  He was probably off to find Marcus or one of the other boys.  

Draco watched his son skip down the hall, happy to at last be done with his pesky lesson.  By the time Tom had become a dot in the distance, Hermione was on the beginning lines of Debussy's _Cortège_.  The melody bounced along with a wonderful cheeriness that abruptly died with a discordant note that Draco knew was Hermione pounding on the keys.  

A lonely sob followed.  

As Draco peered around the corner, he was stricken by the sight of his wife with her head lying on top of the keys.  Her hands were clenched in her chestnut hair, and her shoulders shook as she wept.  

Draco swallowed as he entered the room, closing the door behind him.  The latch clicked, causing her to glance up.  She wiped furiously at her eyes and glared at him, but Draco was no longer fooled by her pretense.    

"Why are you so miserable, Hermione?" he asked, his own voice shaking.  "Is it me?"

"…Yes," she whispered.  

Her words nearly rendered him speechless, but after a long pause he managed to choke out, "Don't you love me anymore?"

"I do…"

Draco came closer to kneel before her, and took her hand, which she quickly retracted.  "What did I do?"

For a long time Hermione looked at him—really looked at him for the first time in months.  She had been avoiding his gaze for weeks, but not now.  It seemed that all she had been waiting for was for him to ask that question.  Now already, the air between them was clearer.  

"Ginny saw you with another woman."

Draco bolted to his feet, furious that Hermione would ever believe such a thing, but Hermione motioned for him to be calm.  He was not calmed, however, although he did allow her to speak.  Even so, he paced back and forth.  

"No no, not like that, " cried Hermione.  "I know you would never _do_ anything like that.  But I remember once what you said about Blaise's wife and how she was so boring because she never did anything, and then Ginny said that you had been flirting and I just…"

"You just what?  You decided you might ruin a perfectly good marriage with your passive aggressive behavior?!"

Hermione was crying again, but Draco was so angry that he didn't care.  "You put me in Hell for four months because of hearsay you got from a person who doesn't even like me?!  How could you even think that I would do that to you?!?!"

All throughout his rant, Hermione was trying to speak, but Draco shouted over her.  He was hurt by her inability to trust him.  He was devastated that she would have let their marriage fall apart so easily.  He didn't want to talk to her anymore.

But when he had set one foot outside the door he stopped and remembered that party four months ago, the one that both he and Ginny had apparently attended.  

He had gotten quite drunk and he may have flirted a bit.  He honestly wasn't sure how his behavior had looked to others.  But what did it really matter?  

Draco turned around again to find Hermione looking at him, the shame in her face evident.  He loved her.  She loved him.  Perhaps she should not have suspected him so quickly, but then again he had been rather critical of late.

He was too critical of her at times.  After all, she was a wonderful mother and a wonderful teacher.  

A sigh escaped him as he went to her once more.  

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I don't know what I was thinking."

He leaned over and kissed her.  It was a slow, gentle kiss, full of love and apology and promise. 

"I'm sorry too," he answered.  And just like that their feud was ended.  

Draco leaned over her in order to ruffle through the music sitting on the stand.  He looked straight into her eyes as he did so, and although they were red and still shining with tears it was as if they had never fought at all.  

"Why don't you play the Larghetto?" he told her.  "You know how I love that piece."

But then Hermione kissed him and didn't touch the piano keys for the remainder of the day.  


End file.
